


Acier

by insensible



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur's mild obsession with Ingrid Bergman makes Eames unaccountably jealous, Arthur's surprisingly filthy mouth, BDSM, Blowjobs, Did I mention sounding, Eames considers himself the fifth emergency service, Eames has yet another crisis, Hotel Sex, M/M, Mention of Eames' favourite in-dream sex murder, Mention of expensive sable watercolour brushes with no sexual relevance whatsoever, Oh it's all filthy frankly, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Professional chastity, Sounding, Trust, first-time nerves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27526258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insensible/pseuds/insensible
Summary: “Christ,” he says.“I told you,” Arthur says.“You did, and you’re always right, darling.”
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	Acier

“I brought these,” Arthur says, handing a black fabric case to Eames. It looks so much like the one Eames keeps his best Kolinsky sables in that for a moment he wonders why Arthur has brought it. 

Then Eames looks more closely. 

It’s not his brush case. 

He opens it. The contents are not paintbrushes.

“Ah,” he says, biting his lip. “You remembered.”

“I don’t make a habit of forgetting.” 

Both of them are remembering that night two months ago. They'd been lounging on the bed in their hotel room in Belize, Eames propped against the headboard, rain drumming against the window, _Casablanca_ playing on the wall tv opposite. Both of them were horny but too tired to do much with it; they’d dozed for a while, Arthur curled across the sheets with his head on Eames’ thigh, administering occasional, lazy kisses and bites, Eames intermittently hissing and digging his fingers into Arthur’s scalp—and a little while later Arthur, a little more awake, had been playing his tongue gently over the tip of Eames’ half-hard cock. When he’d dug the very tip of his tongue into the slit, Eames’ twitch and groan—so much sharper and deeper than any he’d made from Arthur’s bites—had made Arthur smile and draw away. 

“Yeah, we should do that, sometime,” he’d said. 

Eames blinked. “Hmm?”

“Silicon or steel?”

“What do you mean?”

Arthur had looked a little incredulous, then. “You _know_ what I mean.”

“Nope.” 

“You’ve not played with sounds?”

“Ah,” said Eames. “Caught up with you. No, never done it.” 

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Just _oh_. I’m not passing judgment.”

Eames made a noncommittal _hm_. 

“With you, I tend to _assume,_ ” Arthur added. 

“With _me_ ,” Eames said, heavy on the _me_. 

“Eames, don’t be an ass. You _know_ that’s not what I meant. I’m surprised, is all. I always assume you’ve done everything.” 

Eames looked a little pained. “I’m not…”

“… considering how this all started,” added Arthur, with a smirk. 

Fair point, Eames admitted to himself, feeling the urge to lift two fingers to that hair-fine line he still feels is there, as if it were perpetually blossoming under the hinge of his jaw. 

Arthur had shrugged minutely then, rescued him from the necessity of a reply.  “Anyway. If you ever wanted to try.”

“The idea’s always made me a little bit uncomfortable, actually, Arthur.” 

“Okay,” said Arthur easily, settling himself back in Eames’ lap, face turned back to the screen. 

Ok indeed, thought Eames, staring at Ingrid Bergman with growing annoyance until he concluded that his irritation was mostly jealousy that she was holding all of Arthur’s attention. He’d sighed, put his hand back on Arthur’s head, scratched gently at his scalp. “That wasn’t a no. More of a maybe. I don’t know. Is it something you’d like?”

“Yeah,” Arthur had said, in tones so flat they sounded bored, but Eames wasn't fooled for a second; not after he’d felt Arthur’s loosely curled fingers twitch helplessly against his knee. 

*

It’s _cold_. Ever-resourceful Arthur has apparently been keeping this kit in the minibar, and the first touch of the sound’s tip to the head of Eames’ cock makes him freeze in place, breath stuttering in his throat. Arthur’s gripping him lightly with one hand, and the glint of the sound between the fingers and thumb of the other makes it look far too much like a blade but also not _quite_ enough like one, and Eames isn’t sure if he wants to see everything or screw his eyes tight shut and whimper. He keeps them open. Whimpers anyway. He’s not sure why this is such a difficulty for him, but _god_ , watching that curve of bitingly cold steel against his crown, the pressure of it, the way Arthur pushes it against him in small circles, tiny wet drags. His heart is thumping with a familiar combination of arousal and fear. With Arthur the fear usually stokes the fire, but this time he's wrestling with it; there’s too much of it to put it where it needs to go. 

He raises a hand, touches his fingertips to Arthur’s forearm just below his rolled-up cuff, looks at him in mute appeal. Arthur lifts the sound away, raises an eyebrow just enough to make it a question. 

“I’m good,” says Eames, after hauling in a breath. “Give me a moment.”

Arthur sits back on his heels. Eames looks at the arches of his bare feet, the pale wool of his trousers taut over his thighs, the slight, interrogative tilt to his head. 

“Want to stop?”

“No.” 

“Good. Maybe you need more than a moment?” Laying the sound back on the cloth beside him, Arthur shifts himself down, takes Eames into his mouth, splays one hand across his chest. It’s an anchoring pressure, one finger playing almost idly against a nipple, and Eames _melts._ It’s not just the sensation, that short-circuit between the heat at his nipple and groin that is pulling him upwards and making him sink at the same time. Arthur is making him desperate and soothing him too; his tongue is asking questions to which the answer can only be yes, his eyes closed, cheeks gently hollowed, and Eames, fuck, Eames _loves_ this man. He's only lately been given to understand the nature of the damage that somehow got annealed into Arthur’s formidable strengths, and being trusted with that knowledge has astounded him. People don't trust Eames. Never have, and for good reason. Having Arthur’s trust is almost an agony, but he can’t help thinking of it as a badge of honour. He’ll keep it safe. And as he gasps his way through a particularly miraculous movement of Arthur's remorselessly clever tongue, Eames knows he trusts him here. Does. Always has. Arthur had only needed to remind him. 

When Arthur sits back up, he’s wearing a very particular smile. He lubes the sound again, talks as he does so. 

“I’ve never thought of you as virginal, Mister Eames, but here we are,’ he says. “You're _nervous_.”

And that’s it, of course it is. It's exactly what it is. And as soon as Eames feels the truth of it, his first-time nerves flip and fold into such ridiculous and instantaneous arousal he feels it flash like an electric shock over every inch of his skin, making his balls ache, his cock jerk and leak; Arthur runs a finger through the moisture, rubs it between forefinger and thumb, looks pleased. 

“I know. It’s such a tender little hole. I’m going to be careful with it. You don’t have to do anything,” he says, “except watch, and let me in. And Eames?” his voice with an edge on it, now. “Don’t be quiet. I want to hear you.” 

The wrongness, the perfection of it. It’s a sweet, spreading, deepening ache that Eames knows, within moments, is going to ruin him. 

_“Arthur_ ,” he croaks. “ _Fuck_. _Oh fuck.”_

“Eames,” murmurs Arthur, low and pleased. “You _really_ like this.” 

It’s one of the most intimate things Eames has ever felt, as intimate as the kiss of Arthur’s blade through his throat, but it’s not sharp, not at all: it’s the pleasure-pain of a bruise heightened to impossible intensity. He wants to shout but he’s holding his breath and watching Arthur rubbing the underside of his cock just below the glans with the pad of his thumb and Eames can feel the metal sinking inside him and it’s _so fucking much._ When Arthur twists the sound a little, Eames whimpers again, fresh waves of sweat clawing their way out of his skin. 

Arthur opens his fingers when the sound is deep and Eames sees—and feels—it rise. When Arthur takes hold of the end again he lets out a gasp and drags in another breath before that inexorable weight is sinking into him again, and it’s not as cold as it was, it’s blood heat now, so much so that Eames is having difficulty separating the fact of it from his flesh. It’s a deep, heavy sensation inside him that _is_ him, and—Arthur’s fucking him with it. That’s what he’s doing. His face is _exactly_ what it looks like when he’s fucking Eames; the narrowed eyes, and the tiniest curve to his mouth, that suspicion of cruelty in it—seeing that expression sends another rolling wave of submission right through his frame.

Fuck, this is not what he had expected. 

“You’re going to want more of this,” Arthur murmurs, rubbing gently on the exposed end of the sound. Eames nods, and the movement makes him realise, with a flush of pride, how still he’d managed to keep himself until now. Even this movement of his head had pulled at his abdominal muscles, made him feel the intrusion inside him. 

“We’ll work up through the set,” Arthur is saying, almost to himself, “swapping up the diameter—"

Eames makes a rough sound at that that ends in something like a squeak: Arthur laughs, low and delighted, takes his hand away, reaches back down, massages Eames’ shaft a little less gently than before. 

“Yeah,” says Arthur. “You’ve been thinking that too.” 

Arthur is wrong about that. Eames has not been thinking it, though now he can think of nothing else. 

“You don’t need me for that, Eames. I’ll leave the set with you while I’m away so you can play with them all on your own. Waiting for me to get back to find out how much more you can take.”

He twists the sound again, and the sensation feeds Eames’ imagination, supplies him with an extremely vivid image of himself alone, hunched over his cock, testing himself, doing his best for Arthur. He’s panting, now, each exhale turning itself into a moan. 

“You like the idea of loosening you up like that. Maybe we could work up to a whole finger,” Arthur muses, abstractedly, and Eames’ eyes go wide. Is that possible? He’s never looked into this, it’s never been something he’s wanted, let alone eagerly researched, and this sounds frankly improbable, anatomically, but _fuck._ He lets out a long, helpless sound at the idea of it, what it would be like to feel Arthur’s finger sinking _into_ his cock, the roughness of it, the sensation of him crooking it, rubbing slowly, deliberately against his insides. 

His knees rise, his shoulders too, curling up with how badly he wants to protect himself from that and how badly he needs it. Christ, he needs to come. Arthur frowns, presses lightly on his right knee. It’s a clear instruction, and Eames does his best to straighten his legs. He can’t quite manage it. It requires a little more persuasion, and only Arthur pushing hard on his hip, pressing it firmly downwards into the sheets, is sufficient to allow him to slowly uncoil. Once flat, he lies there gulping air, staring at Arthur’s hand where it rests on him. It looks cool, and apart from a shine to the fingertips, dry. Eames’s skin around it shines with sweat. He’s covered in it. It stings in his eyes, and he’s revelling in that sharpness, eating it up, loving how every moment makes it harder for him to see. 

“Do you know what happens,” says Arthur, slowly, “when something that wide’s inside you? You can’t stay hard.”

“I didn’t know that,” Eames manages, haltingly. 

“Soft,” Arthur says, voice almost a whisper, “around the finger I’m fucking you with. But you won’t need to be hard, will you, not ever again, there’s no need to be, when all you want is this, to be used like this.”

Eames knows Arthur is rambling, as close to being overwhelmed as he’s ever seen him, and what he’s saying can't be physiologically logical, must be bullshit, but it’s _really_ doing it for Arthur, and it’s really doing it for him.

“No” he whispers, not sure if he’s spoken loud enough to be heard. Eames has discovered a few things about Arthur in the last few minutes, but he’s discovered a hell of a lot more about himself. Yet again Arthur’s managed to pull a whole landscape of need into existence from things Eames never imagined he’d want. The idea of it. To never be hard again, to just be like this for him, always—Eames thinks he might faint before he comes, and he doesn’t want to, mostly, he feels, because Arthur would be disappointed if he did. 

“Please,” he says, just once, but with all of him behind the appeal, and Arthur looks back at him, considering, and nods. He pulls the sound free, smoothly, expertly, fast enough to make Eames yelp, sets a hand around his cock. “I knew you’d like it,” he says. “Show me how much.” That familiar grip and stroke feels so much more intense against that strange new soreness inside him. He feels the lightest brush of a finger up along the line of his perineum, a caress that ends with a fingertip digging in hard—and then Eames is coming, and he means to watch, he means to, he really wants to see himself spill but he can barely see at all, and he doesn’t shout, he doesn’t groan, he comes the way he always does when it is most intense, with a shuddering, stifled sob, and when he has the strength to look, his ears singing, he sees that Arthur is as smug as he has ever seen him, and Arthur does smug better than anyone Eames has ever known. 

_“Christ_ ,” he says.

“I told you,” Arthur says. 

“You did, and you’re always right, darling.” 

Eames is suddenly not sure why he’s talking. He’s not sure of anything except the overwhelming fact that he needs to get his mouth on Arthur. He’s practically an emergency service, he decides, knowing he’s a little unhinged in thinking so. Fire, Police, Ambulance, Coastguard, Eames. He reaches for Arthur’s fly, touches a finger to the fine wool over the clasp, drifts his hand down along the line of the obvious strain, looks up for permission—and gets a flat hand atop his own. Arthur shakes his head. “I’m working,” he says. 

“Not now you’re not,” 

“Not until we’re done.” 

“What?”

“Eames, you _know_ I don’t when I’m working.” 

“I did not know this. Seriously?”

“Eames, how long have you known me?”

Eames removes his hand, sits back on his heels. He’s thinking of the way Arthur’s temper has always frayed the longer a job went on. How his barbs always get more pointed, his impatience increasingly palpable. He laughs out loud. “Fuck, I missed that,” he said. “Most of the time I thought it was me.”

“A lot of it was.” 

Eames shakes his head in wonder. “And you’ve been here two weeks. The job is in three days. Then a day to clean up.”

Arthur nods. “Possibly two.”

Eames, who has never been good at delayed gratification unless it’s firmly negotiated and he has happily decided to have no choice in the matter, is close to awe. 

“You’re bloody wonderful, you know that?”

Arthur frowns. 

“I’m not fucking with you. I’m serious. I hope you’re not aching too much right now, or if you are, you’re enjoying it. I’m going to try not to count the hours, but, you know, darling.” 

Arthur grins, dimples and all, runs a hand over Eames’ forehead, rubbing stray strands of hair back into place with his thumb. “What makes you think I’m not counting them all?” 


End file.
